


when i feel down, i want you above me

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Passionate and Fascinating Exchange of Letters, Pining, Pre-Canon, Sexual Fantasy, i'm gonna cut to the chase. newt jerks off to hermann's letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: It’s just something about the way Hermannwritesthat gets to Newt.





	when i feel down, i want you above me

**Author's Note:**

> be the change you want to see in the world. in this case, that change is 2,000 words of newt geiszler jerkin it to a piece of paper, born out of a conversation monday on twitter after i noticed a distressing lack of this plot. passionate and fascinating, man, like, come ON
> 
> title from That One divinyls song. i couldn't NOT use it

There’s nothing inherently erotic about Hermann’s letters: no descriptions of sexual fantasies, no glaringly obvious flirtations (or even hints at future flirtations), no scandalous photographs hidden in the folds waiting to fall out when Newt least expects it. It’s just something about the way Hermann _writes_ that gets to Newt. His letters—now nowhere near as clipped and professional and scientifically detached as they were in the beginning of their correspondence—still affect the sort of tone that makes Newt feel like he’s an undergrad again, and that Hermann is one of his lecturers. That’s not what does it, though; it’s that every so often Hermann will get excited about something, or some open, genuine affection for Newt will slip through, and the facade cracks and Newt can see, with shocking and butterflies-inducing clarity, that Hermann Gottlieb is a real, breathing person and not just a fantasy sprung forth from a culmination of years of loneliness and tiny details that equal Newt’s Type.

So, naturally: Newt jerks off to them.

It takes a lot of incredible mental gymnastics at first, actually, and Newt thinks he’s definitely qualified himself for some sort of _Most Complicated Masturbation Fantasy_ award, on account of the fact that when he first started popping boners over Hermann describing breach physics for a paragraph he quite literally had no idea what Hermann sounded or _looked_ like, other than that he probably had some sort of British accent. So, Newt learned to improvise. Fantasy Hermann started out looking something like a cross between Agent Mulder and _Independence Day_ -era Jeff Goldblum, except dressed up like Newt’s old Calc I professor (ugly glasses and a whole lot of sweater vests) and with a voice like he just stepped off the set of _Downton Abbey_. Somehow, embarrassingly, it works.

The first time Newt caves in and admits to himself that, yes, he does _maybe_ have a huge thing for his penpal and brings himself off to the thought of Hermann, he’s clutching Hermann’s latest letter in one hand and imagining Hermann rattling off the equations he copied down onto the page in Newt’s ear. It’s as fantastic and guilt-inducing as he anticipated. After that, it just becomes a ritual. Whenever Newt gets a new letter from Hermann, he’ll sit in bed and read it thoroughly, and with every instance of scientific jargon that flies over his head, every light-hearted insult, every compliment (backhanded or not), he jerks himself faster until he’s coming in his boxers over Hermann’s customary ending flourish of _Yours, Hermann Gottlieb_ and moaning out Hermann’s name.

(Of course, the downside is that, in the process, he manages to induce a Pavlovian response in himself to US Postal Service trucks, to the extent that one time he has to sign for a package red-faced and with a very obvious tenting in his jeans, to the bewilderment of the poor UPS guy.)

Then, one day, out of the blue: Hermann sends him a Polaroid of himself, tucked into the envelope alongside the letter. A perfectly innocent and (unfortunately) non-scandalous photograph of himself looking slightly awkward. There are many comments to be made on this—a Polaroid in _2015_ , the fact that Hermann’s doing little more than looking sternly at the camera in it, whether or not Hermann took it himself selfie-style or convinced someone else to take a picture of him frowning, whether or not Hermann even _has_ friends other than Newt who would take a picture of him—but the most pressing thought on Newt’s mind is _huh_ because, somehow, Hermann’s everything and nothing Newt’s been expecting. Newt got the sweater-vests and granny glasses on a chain right, but there’s no way he could’ve possibly conjured up the strange gracefulness of Hermann’s angular features, the warmth of his dark eyes, his long eyelashes, his wide mouth, his oddly endearing undercut. He looks  _weird_. He looks like a complete nerd. He looks—kinda handsome. Newt grips the Polaroid so tightly he threatens to bend it and comes the hardest he has in a long time.

Newt adjusts, no longer has to improvise as much; fantasy Hermann retains the posh voice and unfashionable clothing, but the Mulder-Goldblum lovechild is easily filed away in favor of keeping the Polaroid on his bedside table within arm’s reach. And, of course, he keeps jerking off.  
  


——————  
  


It’s Friday, and Newt’s had a long week, so by the time he finishes up his scheduled office hours and makes it back to his apartment he wants nothing more than to relax. Possibly for the rest of his existence. Fortunately, the universe humors him for once. There’s a stack of envelopes crammed into his mailbox, and the one on top is exactly what he wants—his name and address in Hermann’s unmistakable handwriting. Newt completely disregards the rest of his mail and bolts upstairs. He remembers, at least, to lock his front door behind him before he undresses, undoing his tie, kicking off his boots, unbuttoning his shirt, leaving a trail of clothing all the way to his bedroom. By the time he’s stripped down to his boxers, settled in against his pillows, and grabbed the Polaroid of Hermann from his nightstand, all that’s left to do is open the envelope. And he does, carefully, eagerly anticipating what Hermann’s written to him this time, and when he slips it out he takes both that and Polaroid in his right hand and rests his left on his chest.

_Dear Newton_ , Hermann begins, and Newt plays idly with the elastic waistband of his boxers, strokes circles on his lower stomach. He imagines Hermann here, curled up in bed beside him, running his fingertips across Newt’s skin gently, saying his name: dear, dear Newton. Maybe, if they keep writing, if they keep growing closer, if Hermann falls as hard for Newt as Newt has for Hermann, Hermann will call him other things too: dearest Newton, _my_ Newton.

Newt’s breath hitches at the thought of that—the _my_ —and he inches his hand down to palm himself through the fabric. Would Hermann be possessive of Newt? Newt would like that; Hermann calling Newt _mine_ and sucking bruises into Newt’s neck where Newt can’t hide them, so everyone knows just exactly Newt belongs to, so _Newt_ knows exactly who he belongs to, and he'd show them off and Hermann would be pleased—he’s fully hard now, and the cotton is steadily growing damp against his hand. He eases it under the waistband, skips ahead in the letter.

It’s been a bit over a week since he sent of his last reply to Hermann, and he doesn’t exactly remember the specifics of it other than a page-long rant on why _The Voyage Home_ was the best _Star Trek_ movie and Hermann can _keep_ his _Wrath of Khan_ , but he’s managed to warrant Hermann calling him a _complete and utter idiot_. Hermann doesn’t really mean it, of course, but—Newt thinks he might like it if Hermann did. He closes his eyes and pictures Hermann’s stern face above him, his little round glasses still perched on his nose, his strange mouth twisted in a scowl and that scowl fixed on Newt.

Forget possessive: he wants Hermann _angry_. Newt slides his fingers over the tip of his cock, thumbing precome around. He pictures Hermann spreading Newt out below him and observing him with cold disinterest, Hermann pushing Newt’s face into his own pillows and digging his nails into Newt’s thighs as he holds him open and fucks him with short, rough thrusts. Newt slides his hand down to the base of his cock and tightens his grip, pulling a whine out of the back of his throat. Maybe Hermann would insult Newt while he fucked him. He’d yank Newt’s head back by his hair and hiss dirty, dirty things in his ear in a posh voice, degrade him, call him a brat—Newt starts stroking himself—a wretch, a _disgrace_ , _only good for taking Hermann’s cock_ —

“Yeah,” Newt breathes, _yes_ , Newt would breathe, and Hermann would yank his head back further, bite down on his shoulder, force Newt to take him harder and harder until Newt was shaking and whimpering and begging Hermann to let him come, but Hermann would ignore him, just keep going, and Newt speeds up his strokes and gasps “ _Please_ ,” and maybe—Newt thinks with an electric thrill—Hermann would even call him a _whore_ , but—no. Newt stills his hand, forces his eyes open, because Hermann wouldn’t treat him like that, not _really_.

He sets the letter and the Polaroid down on the bedspread long enough to lift his ass off the bed, wriggle out of his boxers, and kick them to the carpet, and then immediately skims ahead again. Hermann’s paid him a rare compliment, it seems, though he’s not sure in response to what, _you know I admire your intellect_ , and Newt’s cock twitches in his hand. Not stern and scowling, then, not rough, but Hermann smiling, Hermann running his hands down Newt’s sides, kissing up his throat, saying sweet, sweet things. _Brilliant, fantastic Newton_ , he’d say, _so good, so good for me_ , and Newt _would_ be good for Hermann, and he lets his eyes drift shut again and he sets the paper and picture down. Hermann would take his time, explore and touch Newt slowly—Newt teases the head of his cock with his thumb again, sucks on a few fingers of his free hand—he’d give Newt his full attention, make Newt feel worthy of it, like he’s special—Newt brings his saliva-slick fingers down to his chest, groans as he tweaks at one of his nipples. _You’re always so good for me_ , Hermann would say, “I am,” Newt moans into his empty bedroom, “I am good, I am,” and he cups his balls as he pinches his nipple harder and his cock is leaking on his stomach, “fuck, oh, Hermann—”

Hermann would hold him tightly in his arms and kiss him everywhere as he made love to Newt, and he’d say _you’re wonderful, you feel wonderful, Newton, my dear Newton_ , and Newt starts stroking his cock again, sticky with precome, and he sucks on his (Hermann’s) fingers again and he cants his hips up so he (Hermann) can circle his entrance with them, _you take everything I give you so admirably_. “Yes,” Newt gasps, and Hermann would smile with those wide lips and kiss him softly as he rocked into Newt slowly, carefully, letting Newt feel every inch of him. Hermann would tell Newt how smart he is, how beautiful Newt is, how he loves Newt more than anything, adores him, really, and Newt would tell Hermann the same, and Hermann would kiss him again and again. “ _Hermann_ —” Newt tilts his head and opens his eyes enough to read _Yours, Hermann Gottlieb_ across the bottom of the last page in Hermann’s tight, elegant handwriting, and he fucks up into his fist and presses down on his perineum and then he’s arching off the bed and coming on his stomach with a cry.

Afterwards, still breathing hard, Newt leans off the bed and fumbles around until he finds his discarded pair of boxers, then uses them to wipe off as much of the mess as he can manage and throws them in the general direction of the hamper to be dealt with later. He tucks the Polaroid back onto his nightstand, just between his alarm clock and his lamp, with only a mild twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. What Hermann doesn’t know what hurt him, so best not to dwell. And anyway, Newt has a reply to write.

  
——————  
  


Ten years, one almost-apocalypse, one drift with Hermann, and one round of declarations-of-love-turned-awesome sex (also with Hermann) later, Newt lies sprawled out on Hermann’s bedsheets, chest heaving, while Hermann clings to his side and nuzzles into his neck sleepily. If this were a movie, Newt thinks he’d be smoking a cigarette or giving a long, impassioned speech on all the time they’ve wasted right now or something. As it is, he simply runs his fingers through Hermann’s short hair and smiles goofily at the soft, happy noise Hermann makes, and Hermann threads his fingers with those of Newt’s free hand.

“Would you believe,” Hermann says after some time, and he gives Newt’s collarbone a little kiss, and Newt can see that his face is heating up to an adorable shade of red, “that I—ah—used to touch myself to your letters?”

“ _Dude_ ,” Newt says.

**Author's Note:**

> one: you can pry newt's crush on jeff goldblum from my cold dead hands, two: if you were wondering who hermann pictured before newt sent his own selfie, it was little shop of horrors-era rick moranis, and newt is offended 50% because hermann was so spot on and 50% because hermann didn't even _try_ to imagine newt being super hot
> 
> obligatory "eventually i'll post something that's not ridiculous" ending disclaimer. find me on twitter at hermanngaylieb or tumblr at hermannsthumb!


End file.
